Sleeping Beauty
by Gamebird
Summary: Set in the Wall. Peter comes to care for Sylar and through caring for another, he learns to care for himself again. Only then can he put the past behind them and learn to love once more. This is mainly written from Peter's point of view, but I swap it around in a few chapters, like the first one. 'XXX' precedes POV shifts.
1. First Temptation

**Title: **Sleeping Beauty  
**Characters:** Peter, Sylar  
**Rating:** NC-17  
**Warnings: **Graphic sex and all that  
**Words: **15,000  
**Setting: **The Wall  
**Summary: **Peter comes to care for Sylar and through caring for another, he learns to care for himself again. Only then can he put the past behind them and learn to love once more.  
**Notes: **This is mainly written from Peter's point of view, but I swap it around in a few chapters, like the first one. 'XXX' precedes POV shifts.

* * *

Peter smiled softly to himself as he finished one last reprieve of the Beatles, 'Carry That Weight,' before turning to face Sylar. He was finished with the piano for now. He wasn't hungry for lunch yet. Conversation came to mind, but Sylar looked to be asleep, his book collapsed across his chest as he reclined on the couch. Sylar was still suffering from a concussion, the aftereffect of their last fight, and as such he tended to nod off easily. He made for an uncomplaining audience.

Peter sat silently, watching the man breathe with features set in the carefree relaxation peculiar to sleep. He looked so harmless that way. His lashes, doubly thick, looked childlike in the way they gathered at rest. It reminded Peter that once upon a time, the fearsome killer Sylar had been an innocent little boy not unlike the ones he saw regularly as a paramedic – and somewhere inside of the man slumbering on the couch, he still was. Peter sighed. Whether it was that exhalation or merely the continued cessation of the music, Sylar roused. Peter waited until he had Sylar's attention before asking, "What would you like to talk about?"

Sylar rubbed over his eyes once, straightening and setting his book aside. He blinked with a small, growing frown as he took in Peter's words. "That's a trick question," he answered suspiciously, breaking the illusion with his unwarranted defensiveness. "What are you _going_ to talk about? Obviously, that's what we'll discuss."

Peter rolled his eyes in irritation. They couldn't even get through the most basic of conversations (though he had to admit that arguing over what to talk about was an improvement over hitting each other with their fists). "It's not a trick question," he said with exasperation. "I just thought we could talk about what we would talk about." Sylar merely frowned. Peter's lips pressed together in a similarly displeased line. He folded down the guard for the piano keys and leaned his elbow against it, settling in to wait Sylar out. It wasn't like it was all that bad a view. Peter found his eyes tracking slowly and probably rudely across Sylar's face, taking him in much as he had while the man was sleeping. _He is really, really good-looking. That's bizarre. Just … incredible._ Peter sighed, relaxing and staring, ignoring Sylar's affronted expression and crossed arms. _If Sylar won't talk … well, there are other options. (Wait, like what? What exactly am I thinking about again?)_ He twitched as his mind stumbled, unable to consciously process the dirty possibility had just gone through his head, having bypassed his usually diligent internal morality filter. Realizing he was already well into ogling territory, Peter cleared his throat and looked down, studying a random spot in the thin carpet covering the floor between them. Maybe staring at each other was not the best idea after all.

XXX

For Sylar's part, he noticed quite a bit sooner than Peter did, consciously, that Peter's thoughts had wandered outside the bounds of normal politeness. It wasn't like Peter was all that discreet about it, after all. _Is he … he's looking at me. Wow, he's really checking me out._ Sylar froze himself in place, not giving in to any of the myriad reactions he wanted to have, like blinking or questioning or even waving a hand to see if Peter's eyes tracked the motion. By holding still, he lengthened the time Peter spent with gaze stroking over his face and shoulders, with a few quick flits lower. Sylar could feel himself flushing anyway, heart beating faster, blood hustling around his body at a mad pace. The attention and regard gave him meaning and value in a meaningless, empty world. While Peter was watching him, wanting him, Sylar mattered. Then Peter jerked, seemed to realize what he'd been doing, and turned his eyes to the floor.

_No! Look at me! Look at me again, dammit!_ All the air slowly leaked out of Sylar in frustration and disappointment. The moment of attraction, of being looked at like he was desired and appreciated as something other than a weapon or tool to be manipulated and cast aside, was over. Peter seemed genuinely done with him. The only way to regain his attention was to get him talking again, because he expected that Peter's next step would be to simply leave if no conversation was forthcoming. Sylar had been too long alone to let that happen. He gleaned through his thoughts, pulling out something he'd been wanting to ask Peter about anyway. _Might as well be now._

"How do you know that kid you found in the future was mine?" He couldn't imagine circumstances that would leave him saddled with a kid, and the topic would both get Peter talking and give Sylar answers.

XXX

Peter drew in a deep breath, wondering if there was some reason why Sylar kept referring to his own son (even if only in an alternate timeline) so disrespectfully. "The 'kid' was named _Noah_." When Sylar merely gave him a brief eye roll, Peter went on, "I don't know if he was biologically yours, but he called you Daddy. He knew you. He was comfortable with you. He," Peter swallowed and looked down, "went to you when he was afraid." He looked back up at Sylar. "You weren't just a babysitter to him." Lightening the mood with a single laugh and a smile, he said, "Not to the dog, either. He was up on a stool – Mr. Muggles – and you gave him … a piece of waffle or pancake, I think. Then you petted him and you really cared about him – both of them." Peter smiled softly, warmly. That picture was very set in his mind. It was a window to what Sylar could be and what Peter believed he still had it within him to become. "It was cute."

Wondering about the differences between that man and the one before him, Peter went on, "You know, that wasn't a normal future. Things would have had to have changed a long way back. I would think the change must be that Hiro never met me in that subway, so I never went to Odessa and stopped you at the stadium, so I guess you got Claire's ability, but in the future she was … um …" Peter shrugged one shoulder, remembering her future version's lack of concern about the boy's life and later slicing into Peter when he was tied down. "Not one of the good guys." He frowned. _But she was working for Nathan … so he wasn't one of the good guys, either._ "Nathan was president," he said absently, still lost in considering all the topsy-turvy changes in that strange future.

XXX

Nathan. The N-word. One of those things they couldn't talk about. But Peter had broached the subject. When Peter had mentioned this future before, he'd been pretty skimpy about the rest of it, saying only that he'd had a really bad day. And apparently he'd killed someone while using Sylar's ability – another thing he wouldn't talk about. It occurred to Sylar that this glimpse of the future was the one thing about Nathan Peter might know that Sylar didn't. That was an interesting thought. "Tell me about him."

XXX

Peter looked up at Sylar blankly for a moment, then visibly drew in on himself, lips folding around his teeth like a politician caught in a scandal, weight shifting towards the support of the piano. "I don't want to talk about Nathan," he whispered hoarsely.

XXX

_You're the one who brought him up!_ And Sylar hesitated. Peter's reaction was very strange. It looked like … guilt. Two things Peter refused to talk about – Nathan, and his victim in the future – suddenly clicked together in Sylar's mind. They were one and the same. He'd assumed, previously, that Peter's quarry had been some innocent as an explanation for why he had refused to discuss it when the subject had come up before, but this fit even better. A smile began to grow on Sylar's face as he realized the full extent of the hypocrisy Peter was indulging in, holding Sylar accountable for a murder Peter himself had committed, and gotten away with consequence-free. He even chuckled. _Oh, how me knowing about this will complicate your attempts to paint me as a villain! Got a little of that red paint on yourself, too, I see!_

Peter's face was contorting with suspicion and anger. 'Nathan' was not a laughing matter even if he didn't know exactly what Sylar found so amusing. Sylar enlightened him. "So it seems I'm not the only one who's killed him. Welcome to the club," he said with an open-armed flourish.

XXX

_He knows. The asshole_. There was no doubt in Peter's mind that Sylar would see this as vindication. Indeed, Sylar was probably thinking even now that this justified what he'd done, when Peter saw it as merely revealing that they were both guilty of the same act. But he wasn't going to argue this. He wasn't going to sit there still and reactionless while Sylar laughed in his face over his brother's death.

Peter launched himself across the short distance between them, his left hand lashing out for Sylar's throat, to hold him where he wanted him while he did whatever – punch him, choke him, or just rant at him. Sylar really should have expected that, but it was always a surprise to him that other people had free will and autonomy. Peter, right hand raised like he might strike with it, leaned in close and snarled, "What do you know? Haven't you ever killed anyone you cared about?" Peter knew he had. It had been too clear in the silences of Sylar's stories, the gaps he chose to leave. Sylar didn't speak now, either, but he answered just as surely. His expression flickered, faintly, but enough for Peter to read it at this range. Peter dropped his right hand from attack position. His left released the man's throat and rested on his shoulder, because Sylar understood the burden of this particular brand of guilt. Sylar swallowed roughly, continuing to incriminate himself with silence.

"So you know what it's like." Sylar's chest was warm where his hand rested against it. It heaved slowly in deep, slightly hitching breaths. Peter leaned over him where Sylar sat with one arm gripping the couch arm, the other held loosely to his right. He hadn't grabbed Peter or done anything to stop him from choking him. He'd done _nothing_. And Peter knew, somehow, this was because they shared that experience of profoundly personal horror, to find out that you were capable of something so vile. Sylar wasn't saying it didn't matter. He felt condemned, but in Sylar's case, without the benefit of people not knowing about it. Sylar could never get away from what he'd done, not even when stranded in a world without people – ironically, someone would find him and hold him accountable anyway. And so when Peter had lashed out, Sylar had opened himself to it.

Peter looked into those beautiful, dark eyes, back and forth between those fathomless portals into Sylar's soul. Sylar hadn't been insulting Nathan's death – either of them. There was no dismissiveness here, only the black humor of someone who had seen the worst of humanity and was struggling to cope without going insane. The bitter reminder of mortality, of killing a loved one, had affected Sylar deeply. He wouldn't be so guarded if there were nothing to guard. Sylar was so human, such a paradox of frailty and resilience. He was-

XXX

-impatient. Sylar couldn't stand it anymore – Peter leaning over him, face inches from his own, the feel of his breath warm against his cheek, scent saturating the air between them, the impression of the clasping hand still felt as a phantom sensation on his neck, with the real hand pressing firmly against him, holding him in his seat for Peter's continued perusal. Not so different from the earlier ogling, except now Peter was even more focused. He was reading Sylar like a book. Just as before, it lifted Sylar up and made him feel wanted. It was like Peter was _waiting_ for him to do something.

He reached up, grabbing the back of Peter's neck and pulling him in those last few inches, planting lips against his. He was desperate to connect and if he couldn't figure out how to do it emotionally, then there was at least the physical route. Maybe this time he wouldn't kill the person he was with (or be killed). Peter had so much more restraint – frighteningly, for all Peter's ups and downs, he was much more stable and predictable than Elle had been. Maybe this time it would work. He yearned for that, something so simple – a meaningful, lasting social relationship – nearly all of the more complex organisms on the planet managed it. It was fundamental to the survival of the species. If he was the more evolved, more perfected form, then why was this so difficult for him to achieve?

And then, although it was only the span of a second or two, it seemed like forever – Peter kissed him back. His lips moved purposefully against Sylar's, a full pulse of motion, every millimeter of movement sending thrills and fireworks through Sylar's form, filling an aching void inside of him that had been empty his entire life. Peter's hand on his shoulder curled into a fist, tightening around the fabric of his shirt as Peter made a hungry noise in his throat. Sylar felt suddenly breathless as Peter did it a second time, or at least most of a second time, before Peter was pulling away. Sylar's air left him in a whine as he struggled to keep Peter to him. That was a mistake. The Italian grunted, ducked his head, and twisted away, coming up with a snarl and a hooking motion of his left hand. Sylar saw it out of the corner of his eye, jerking his head back as Peter's fist zipped in front of his face, tagging his nose sharply as it went by.

_A kiss to die for._ Sudden thoughts of concussion, head impacts, and possible death flashed through his brain. He might be fine on a moment-to-moment basis, but an extra head injury on top of the one he already had might be something he wouldn't recover from. Act-first, think-later Petrelli was useful when the action was kissing, less so when it came to smacking Sylar in the face. He tried to scramble backwards over the couch, but his foot slipped on the slick leather cushion. It wasn't a lethal misstep, though, because Peter retreated, wiping his mouth angrily to get the taste of Sylar off of him. _**You**__ were kissing __**me**__!_ Sylar thought in protest. _You put that taste there._ _Why be squeamish about it now?_

XXX

Peter ran his hand through his hair, rage etched on his features. He felt betrayed, but it was a good question of who was responsible – Sylar, or himself. He was leaning towards himself at the moment. Sylar might have put them into contact, but it was all Peter who had responded. He knew that full well. The passion of the moment had overwhelmed him and self-control was his responsibility. Too much empathy, too much sympathy, too much _everythi__ng_ right there, inches away and then no distance at all. He could have pulled away immediately, should have, but for a second there he wanted that kiss more than his morals. Only for a few seconds, but it was a few seconds he was now beating himself up over. He whirled and stalked off to the other end of the room, pacing furiously. He wanted to beat Sylar's face in for pulling that, but at the same time that had been so sweet and perfect and the real problem was how much he wanted to go continue where he'd left off.

Sylar followed him, quiet and almost meek, being careful. He wanted that closeness – and he showed his interest by risking assault with his proximity. Peter knew how much Sylar wanted him. He'd felt it through whatever extraordinary empathic ability he possessed. Hell, he hadn't even realized he still had that ability. It had been so long and he'd stayed away from people so resolutely, avoiding any meaningful connection for fear he'd endanger people. He'd thought his empathy was lost to him just like the rest of his abilities. He'd felt a glimmer of it with Emma, but … Sylar? He looked over at the guy with tortured disbelief. It seemed perverse that it was Sylar who would awaken this in him, even if only for a moment. It was fading fast now, like a spark dying out, but he'd felt it blaze up inside of him when they'd kissed. It struck Peter as equally bizarre that Sylar's feelings were so genuine. Being stared at, Sylar sunk his hands into the tops of his pockets and rounded his shoulders, leaning against the corner of the Foosball table and trying to look as small and inoffensive as possible.

Peter didn't want to fight. Neither did Sylar. Peter sighed, shutting his eyes and taking deep breaths. When he opened them, Sylar was touching his own mouth gently, massaging his lips as best fingers could to recreate the pressure of another mouth. Air pushed out of Peter as he looked away. That was so sexy, he felt his cock twitch despite himself. He wanted to go over there and help Sylar out with the real thing. With a sudden shake of his head and a snort at his own stupid libido, Peter wheeled and strode out of the room.


	2. Second Realization

It had been a long day. Too long, Peter admitted, and Sylar was simply not up to it. It had started with inviting Sylar to work out with him, then escalated to going to the grocery store, then since that had gone well, they started a journey across town to the music store in search of new sheet music. It wasn't that Sylar's muscles couldn't take it – they were fine. It was that his damaged brain could only process so much in a day and every bit of tension, exercise, and stimulus used up that precious resource. He'd been running on fumes most of the way back, becoming clumsy enough that Peter had to support him for the last few blocks. With the way Peter's back ached, it felt like he'd half-carried him. Sylar had clung. Sometimes he shut his eyes. Occasionally he muttered. He'd had his irritable phases early on, along with a few outbursts Peter hadn't taken personally. Those were the ones that made Peter abort the trip only a few blocks short of their goal and head back. Finally, they'd made it to Sylar's apartment.

Peter lowered Sylar into the man's narrow bed, then moved to his feet to take off his shoes.

"You're making me helpless," Sylar murmured, eyes shut. "Weak. Easy prey. That's what he told me. But you're doing the same thing. How can that be right?"

Peter supposed the words made sense to Sylar even if they didn't to him. He tucked Sylar's feet under the blanket and pulled the other end up over his chest. He was still clothed, but Peter didn't want to subject him to the hassle, and more importantly, the probable stresses involved with Peter stripping and redressing him in pajamas. More important than comfortable rest was that he got rest at all, and quickly.

Peter started to move by, but Sylar grabbed his shirtsleeve. "I need a family!"

Peter paused. Sylar's words might be disjointed, but his desire was clear. He wanted Peter to stay, made even clearer when Sylar tried to guide him back to the bed. Peter conceded, sitting on the edge like he had one time before, when they'd both been drunk and he'd put Sylar to bed. With Peter safely settled, Sylar relaxed and released him. He smiled up at Peter, calm and happy now that he was getting his way, his face easing and smoothing right in front of Peter's eyes. His color improved almost like he was regenerating. Sylar shut his eyes for a long beat, reopening them to gaze up adoringly, ridiculously happy Peter had granted the simple privilege of sitting with him.

Peter couldn't help but smile back as warmth kindled inside his heart. His brother's murderer – he wasn't thinking that way. He was seeing Sylar as an overtaxed patient who had generously and somewhat foolishly pledged to keep Peter company, probably knowing better than Peter that it was going to be too much for him. But he'd done it anyway. Uncomplaining, Sylar was. Peter's smile was soft. Sylar was also loyal in a way that Peter really had no experience with. No one had ever followed him, stayed with him, or wanted to be with him like this. Even if Sylar didn't have any other choices in people, he always had the choice of being alone. Maybe Peter was deluding himself, but he wanted to think Sylar thought he was special. It was new, to have someone be interested in him like this. Peter didn't think he was worthy of it. (That Peter was not worthy of Sylar, that is. Peter knew himself and his faults. While he might have done much the same to big brother Nathan, tagging along and hero-worshipping him, Peter didn't think he'd done anything to deserve the treatment himself.)

He tugged up the blanket and straightened it, smoothing out the wrinkles across Sylar's front. It prompted another slow blink and deeper, contented breaths from Sylar. Peter went so far as to tuck it in like Nathan had done for him, not sure about the shoes he was stepping into. Did he want to fill them? Did he want to be like an older brother to Sylar? Did it matter what he wanted, because Sylar was going to follow him anyway? 'I need a family', Peter thought, considering Sylar's last statement. He'd been quiet since saying that.

They passed a few moments more in comfortable silence; Sylar's lids were drooping, erratically snapping open to look at Peter, checking on him. Thinking that perhaps his presence was keeping the man from resting, Peter looked over towards the door and considered leaving. He was weighing how Sylar had urged him to sit next to him with how he wasn't sleeping now, when Sylar put an anxious hand on his leg, gripping and pressing as if to keep him there. Peter looked back to him. Sylar's expression had shifted to serious and worried and pleading. Sylar pressed a little harder.

That decided Peter. "It's okay," he murmured, putting his hand on Sylar's forearm. "I'll stay." He stroked it slowly, gently, and the pressure of Sylar's grip lessoned. The anxiety left his face. His eyes slid shut as Peter kept petting him. He started near the elbow and rubbed palm-down to the wrist, lifting his palm towards the end and drawing his fingers in together. Fingers together, nails curled down enough to scratch very lightly, he stroked back up the forearm to the elbow to repeat the pattern. After a few repetitions, Peter let his spine relax and he slumped inward against Sylar's hip. He changed to stroke along the blade of Sylar's forearm, then more slowly and delicately along the inside of his arm. Sylar moaned, lips parting as his breaths turned to light panting. His lids fluttered and he turned his arm upward, giving Peter better access to the softer, more sensitive side.

Peter smiled, amused by how sensual Sylar could make … this. He worried that maybe it was too much stimulation, but if anything, it seemed to be knocking Sylar out. Peter slowed his motions even more, a light, gradual skimming over the inside of Sylar's forearm. Fluttering lids stilled. Panting turned into the deep, even breathing of slumber. Peter stopped, letting his hand rest in place as he regarded the sleeping beauty in front of him. Sylar trusted him, utterly, he thought. He rubbed a little more, but there was no reaction. Lifting his hand away, he sat and waited for a few more patient minutes, making sure Sylar was thoroughly asleep. Peter finally stood, letting Sylar's hand slide off his knee. He didn't stir. Peter let himself out.

XXX

"Why are you acting like this?" Peter asked the next night, frustrated by the sudden onset of Sylar's sarcasm and biting attitude.

"You always leave!"

"I have my own apartment, Sylar."

Sylar looked down sulkily, his shoulders drawing inward and his hands clasping loosely in front of himself. He gave no answer. This had all played out before and Peter always left. Peter sighed. No matter his promises about not leaving the mind-prison without Sylar, no matter his promises of returning each morning, Sylar still became anxious every evening when the time came for Peter to leave. Each and every time.

"I'll go with you to the music store tomorrow," Sylar said, making a statement, but Peter knew it was an offering. They'd failed to complete their trip the day before and Peter hadn't even mentioned going again, not wanting Sylar to overexert himself.

"Sylar, me going back to my apartment at night doesn't have anything to do with you going with me to the music store. Or anywhere." Peter's lips pressed together, his brows knit. His insistent tone didn't help anything. Sylar fidgeted now, casting his eyes over the work table in search of something, anything, to use to delay Peter's departure. Peter knew the game. _I know all of this. I know what he's doing. It's the same thing as his offer to go to the store with me. It's the same thing I … the same thing I do with people I like. _Peter's expression softened._ And it's working about as well for him as it usually did for me with everyone except for Nathan, and sometimes even with him. _Without stopping to think it through, he said, "Get in bed and I'll sit with you like I did last night. You liked that, right?" Sylar stared at him long enough for Peter to scratch at his temple in embarrassment and add, "I'm sorry. Maybe that was too ..."

Sylar shook his head quickly and said, "No. I liked it. Just let me change." The man grabbed the soft cotton set of pajamas off the hook on the bathroom door, shooting Peter a lingering, uncertain look as he held the edge of the door. Clearly, he was concerned Peter might leave while he was inside the bathroom.

"Change," Peter said with a dip of his head. Sylar nodded. Peter waited right where he was for the very brief time it took Sylar to get ready for bed. After the man had settled himself under the covers, Peter walked over to join him, hiking up one leg to sit on the edge like he'd done before. Sylar scooted over and Peter took the offered space, putting his hand on Sylar's abdomen as he moved over. It was a casual touch but they both stopped breathing for a moment. Peter could feel that tingling sensation return briefly, dancing over his fingertips and letting him know how much Sylar thirsted for human comfort. He rubbed them back and forth on the blanket, slowly letting go of his tension. Although he suspected Sylar would welcome more or even something sexual from him, more was not required or expected. Sylar just wanted to be cared for. This was safe; a safe, quiet harbor in this strange and lifeless world they found themselves in.

Peter looked up at Sylar to see the man's eyes large and staring, hopeful and afraid, strangely innocent and child-like with his lips slightly parted and a subtle flush on his cheeks. A faint smile touched Peter's lips and he looked back down. Sylar's bare forearms were crossed over his lower chest. Peter reached up to move the pads of his fingers over the mussed hairs, feeling them uneven and slightly wiry under his touch. He brushed them into place, letting his mind zone out as he engaged in this little bit of grooming, a level of closeness he didn't always achieve even with lovers. Peter liked caring for people. But he had to be careful – in normal life there were boundaries to be observed. As much as people wanted to be loved, they were selective in who they allowed it from. Sylar, it seemed, had selected him. Peter smiled softly. Sylar relaxed under his touch, one of his deepening breaths escaping as a quiet moan. His elbows settled to his sides, making the cross of his forearms loose. His hands folded over one another now. Reaching them, Peter touched over his knuckles, caressing them as he thought about how many times Sylar had used these hands to take life … and which ones.

Peter had begun to wonder if his purpose here involved more than saving the lives of Emma and the others at the carnival. There was Sylar's life as well, but Peter's thoughts went even further than that: himself. Not that he'd been in any imminent mortal peril, but coming here to Sylar's empty world was a respite from how oppressive and frustrated he was with the normal world. Peter felt relief every day he was here. Sylar ached when his only companion left him, but Peter gloried at how they were all alone. His life before had been falling apart: he'd lost his ability, his empathy, his desire to be with other people; he'd alienated his coworkers and left his partner feeling like a chauffeur; he'd intruded in Emma's life and destroyed her cello when he knew it was music that made her smile; he'd failed Hiro and Noah; he'd lost the best single ability he'd ever had, to heal people; he'd lost his brother and been so detached he hadn't even realized it; he'd killed his father; then there was his mother, who was _still_ lying to him, even after everything. He sighed, letting his head hang as he clasped Sylar's hand for a moment. Tingling warmth flowed between them, telling him their wounded souls weren't that different.

What would have happened to Peter if he hadn't come here, to the strange shelter of Sylar's mind? Peter had been hiding out in his partly-furnished apartment, crouching next to the police scanner and pulling doubles at work when he wasn't being shot in the chest by angry office workers. He'd never considered suicide, but Peter could see the pattern now that he wasn't part of it anymore – he'd been looking for his chance, his moment, his morally correct way _out_. And so when he dreamed it was Sylar who would save the carnival, Peter didn't flinch. Sure, it was Sylar – murderous, psychopathic, and vengeful towards the whole Petrelli clan, fully powered and antagonistic as far as Peter had known, last seen talking about how he wanted to literally crucify Peter in Times Square – yep, that guy. Peter headed straight to where he was, weaponless, defenseless, and with no plan at all. Finding him stuck in Parkman's prison, he didn't bother to find out how to get him out, he just dove straight in, heedless of Matt's warnings because Peter's life didn't matter to him anymore.

Or … it hadn't. Now maybe … his life mattered to _Sylar._ That was so fragile and fantastic and strange that the man he'd expected to kill him now wanted … _him_. He looked up at Sylar's droopy lids, the sleepy eyes lazily following Peter's movements. Deep, steady breaths came to the other man. Peter might have lost the supernatural ability to heal, but his mere touch was doing something deep and magical here. Spiritual, even. He stroked Sylar's arm from shoulder to elbow, then elbow to wrist, time after time while varying from top to side so he wasn't irritating by petting the same part over and over. Peter was thrilled and deeply satisfied to help someone like this, with something so basic and raw as mere touch – no special powers, just being human. Sylar made a puffing noise of air escaping from between slack lips. His eyes were fully closed now. Peter straightened and smoothed the wrinkles out of the blanket over Sylar's stomach. This was healing him, too. He felt so good inside – warm, happy, his heart fluttered a little and he found the corners of his eyes wet.

"Good night," he whispered, carefully rising and taking his leave.

XXX

Peter couldn't walk out with Sylar crying. He just couldn't. No matter the many lacerating words they'd just exchanged, the anger that still seethed inside of him, or the vengeance that some small part of him insisted Sylar was due, Peter couldn't leave someone hurting like this. Shutting his eyes for a moment, he opened them so he could shut the door instead. He'd opened it intending to leave, but his feet had stuck to the floor at the sound of a stifled sob. Sylar looked mortified and surprised at the noise himself. When he saw Peter had looked back at him, he'd jerked his face to the side and held his breath, waiting for Peter to finish leaving. The click of the door brought his head around again, but there Peter was, still where he'd been before.

Drawing in air, Peter walked to the couch with a slow tread. Sylar pulled back and stared at him as though expecting to be slugged. Given the tone of their argument, that wasn't an unreasonable fear, but the look left Peter feeling even smaller than the sob had. Sylar jerked when Peter sat down beside him, twitching like he wanted to launch himself from the seat. But he didn't. Peter knew what he needed. He put his arm around the man's shoulders. Soothingly, he said, "It's alright. It's okay." He squeezed with his arm, pulling Sylar's side against his own. It was gentle, yet firm, long and slow before Peter released for a few moments, rubbing briefly before repeating it.

It was the second time when Sylar's breath expelled and caught, ragged and uneven. The taller man bent to rest his head awkwardly against Peter's shoulder. Peter straightened and shifted to make it easier. Sylar leaned into him like his life depended on it. "This doesn't mean anything, does it?" Sylar said, voice incongruously calm.

"It means I'm sorry you're sad."

"I'm not sad," Sylar said, tensing a little, but otherwise staying with his forehead snugged against Peter's neck, dampness from his still-flowing tears infiltrating the shoulder of Peter's shirt to make itself known against his skin.

The ridiculous defiance warmed and melted Peter. He gave him a stronger squeeze across the shoulders and dipped his cheek to press against Sylar's hair for a moment. "It means something," he said simply, and Sylar made a tiny nod, seeming satisfied by that.

XXX

Sylar knew this wasn't going to work. He had won the fight (such as it was), but Peter was even more angry at him now than he was before and an angry Peter was rarely fun to be around. Among other things, he'd almost certainly skip the nightly tucking-in ritual Sylar was enjoying so much. He looked forward to it all day long. Any break in that routine was to be avoided at all costs. Sylar stood, rooted to his spot on the pavement, watching as Peter sat on the curb holding his nose to stop the bleeding. He suspected the only reason he'd 'won' was that Peter had stopped fighting as soon as he got poked in the middle of the face. Peter could have kept fighting – he had done so before, but the level of violence between them had dropped precipitously lately. Did this reluctance signify anything? Was it related to the fleeting intimacies Peter was now willing to share with him? Did it mean Peter really felt something for him and wasn't just humoring him?

The last time they'd fought (argued, really, although even that dignified it too much; mostly they'd just insulted each other until so much ugly truth was on the table that it seemed they couldn't stand each other anymore), things had ended strangely well. It had been comforting if not comfortable. Peter had come to him on the couch, put an arm around him, and … acted weird. Very nice, but his motivations were inscrutable. After getting over the initial shock, Sylar had played along. It was harmless. It had felt good (very good). Was that what it meant to fight and make up?

Well … they'd fought now. Was this making up time? Sylar frowned slightly, weighing the risks and rewards involved in approaching a somewhat injured Peter and forcing himself on him the same way Peter had done to him. Unlike Sylar, Peter tended to be rather reactive. But if this was a normal thing Sylar's twisted social background had passed over, then surely Peter would recognize and tolerate it? There was only one way to find out.

He walked over, slow and steady, hands loose and at his sides. Peter looked up at him and drew back. Sylar made his face look kindly. It was enough; Peter didn't leap up or flee, though he leaned away as far as possible, an alarmed expression on his face when Sylar sat down on the curb so close as to be up against him. Sylar put his arm around Peter's shoulders, feeling the guy surge halfway to his feet. Sylar's arm, not even in place yet, slipped down Peter's back. Peter hesitated, then to Sylar's surprise, he sat back down, twisting to eye him. Sylar didn't want to exchange meaningful looks because he didn't think he'd have the right ones. When Peter put him to bed, he always wore the most affectionate, compassionate expressions. Sylar, when he thought of how he looked at all, just tried to look grateful. Being thankful right now didn't seem appropriate. He put his arm over Peter's shoulders and put an end to the twisting/looking thing by pulling him close, just like Peter had done to him.

Peter huffed, then made a disgusting nasal noise, which was followed by him abruptly grabbing his nose with his already-bloody hand. He tilted his head back to resume the squeeze and wait method of stopping a bloody nose. He did this without getting a safe distance from Sylar, without any additional checking glance, and without throwing off the arm on him. He just sat right there where he was and let Sylar be with him.

Sylar inhaled long and slow, letting it out just as gradually. He felt better suddenly. He felt better to touch this way than to slam his fist into Peter's face. This was nice, just as it had been before. This … meant something, just as Peter had said, and Sylar was starting to sense what that something was – letting defenses down, trusting, being there for each other – it was no small thing. He'd never had anyone give him something as special as this. He gave Peter a squeeze. It was so gratifying that Peter let him, relaxing into it now like Sylar imagined friends might. Or maybe more than friends.


	3. Third Flirtation

It was a short bench, but they shared it anyway. So much of the hostility and distrust between them had disappeared. It was just the two of them here – keeping company, talking, arguing, occasionally fighting, but more often playing. Today had ended with a long game of Frisbee toss, the encroaching darkness having finally made them quit. They watched the slowly rising moon through a gap in the trees. Peter was leaned forward, elbows on knees. Sylar was sprawled back, one arm along the back of the bench, the other hanging at his side.

It was quiet here. No birds. No cars. No pedestrians. No helicopters, sirens, dogs, or even crickets. In the absence of those sounds, Peter could hear Sylar's even breathing with clarity. It was soothing to listen to. Without that anchor, the world had an unreal character to it, false, like a television show or a huge hologram. If he thought about it, he could even feel the heat from Sylar's body, along the left side where the man sat, quite a bit closer than most people would sit but Peter didn't mind; he liked it. The sensation of warmth was strongest along Peter's legs, where they both wore shorts. It was nice in a deep and satisfying way to have someone so closely with him.

Peter flexed his back a few times, then rotated his shoulders. Sylar made the faintest, "Mm," to let him know the man was watching the way he moved his body. It gave Peter an unadulterated thrill. Although facing away, Peter smiled and looked down, letting the darkness hide the blush he could feel on his skin. He liked being looked at, admired even, and he knew the hungry look that sometimes marked Sylar's face when Peter showed off to him. He cycled through the stretches again in case Sylar wanted another look. Then Peter sat up, finding Sylar's right arm on the bench behind him. He froze for a moment, glancing over.

Sylar met his eyes evenly, blank-faced, then turned to look at the sky. "I like watching the moon," Sylar said, voice low. "Astronomical cycles were the earliest forms of time-keeping."

Peter let the air flow out of him, settling against the bench (and Sylar's arm) like it was no big deal. They had touched each other a lot more at other times, especially during basketball, but the romantic nature of sitting together, Sylar's arm around him, while watching the moonrise, wasn't lost on either of them. He'd sat with Sylar other times to see him to bed. For a little while, he'd gotten into the habit of tucking him in. That stopped when Sylar tried too strongly to urge Peter to join him. They might play together, do a lot of things together, but Peter wasn't ready to do that yet. He was happy with the glacial pace of things between them.

He glanced to his right when Sylar's fingers curled against his upper arm, brushing him through the thin cotton of the short sleeve of his t-shirt. A look to his left showed Sylar was pretending to look at the moon, which was now climbing above the level of the trees in slow, majestic progress. Peter sighed and smirked, letting Sylar have his game. "It's a nice night," he murmured.

"Yes, it is." Sylar's voice was low, almost a purr. It stirred things in Peter's chest and loins. He sighed again, feeling content in a way he hadn't in a very long time. Maybe ever. He was still basking in that feeling when Sylar gave him a tug and pulled him to him, putting Peter in the position of resting his head on the man's shoulder.

Peter sputtered indignantly and snorted, righting himself and pulling away, reaching back and prying Sylar's arm out from behind him. He gave Sylar a short, forceful shove, glaring at him for a moment in case this was going to be the start of a fight. But it wasn't. Sylar put his hands on his thighs and was quiet, staring at his own knees. He looked so suddenly despondent that Peter rolled his eyes, made a scoffing noise, and put his arm around Sylar in turn to pull him into the same position.

Maybe it was revenge (let's see how you like it!) Maybe it was consolation (if you want to cuddle, then …?) Sylar was stiff, defensive, but he went where he was put. Peter adjusted his grip on Sylar's far shoulder, rubbing gently up and down to communicate that this was just like the other times Peter had held him – harmless and safe. Sylar relaxed, very tentatively pressing closer. Peter realized they were really going to do this – cuddle on a bench, maybe more. That is, unless he did something screwy like shove Sylar away. Again. He didn't want to. He liked him like this. Sylar snuggled up closer, his hand touching at the back of Peter's waist. Peter scooted forward, creating a tunnel for Sylar's arm to wrap around his waist. Sylar shifted, the position awkward for someone of his height, but he managed it.

It was warm, affectionate, and way more than friendly. Peter soaked up Sylar's warmth, trailing his hand down Sylar's upper arm a few times, toying with the different feelings of t-shirt and arm. He'd been allowed to become familiar with certain easily accessible parts of Sylar's body and he really enjoyed touching them. He'd missed that, after their nightly ritual had stopped. Peter bent his elbow to reach back to Sylar's head. He brushed his fingertips through the man's hair, tilting his head down to rub his cheek against the top of Sylar's head. Hair was a new thing, something Peter rarely touched. Sylar moved, lifting himself and turning his head up. In the dim moonlight, Peter could see his dark brows hovering above wide eyes, lips parted. He remembered that brief kiss they'd shared in the rec room. The world hadn't ended because of it. No ghost of Nathan had risen up to dog his steps and haunt his nights because his self-control had slipped for just a second. He wanted this. He knew Sylar wanted it even more badly. The timing seemed finally right – calm, easy, no grief or horrible flashback marring things.

Peter bent and turned his head, warm breath caressing his lips a moment before the soft skin of Sylar's mouth touched his. A burning tingle ran through him like electricity from crown to toe at the contact. He made a faint sound in the back of his throat, a half-whimper of long suppressed desire. It was quiet, but Sylar clearly heard it and Peter could feel the aching, long-denied passion that flared through them both. Sylar's right hand tightened around Peter's waist and his left rose to cup the side of Peter's face. Peter kissed him, mouth working slow and tender while the most delicious fluttering feeling suffused his stomach. It felt like they were floating, flying, joined together. He was hard, instantly, breath catching as Sylar's tongue-tip touched his mouth. He had one hand cradling the back of Sylar's head. The other touched his cheek, then temple, then neck. Sylar groaned softly and Peter could feel the rumble under his fingers. He turned his head a little more, welcoming Sylar into his mouth and licking at him in return. He felt light-headed, oxygen suddenly in short supply. He felt like he was going to burst from the kiss alone.

Feeling drugged, Peter pulled away with the greatest of difficulty and reluctance. He was a curse on his partners and not the easiest man to love even before his abilities and history complicated things. Back then, he'd been clingy and managed his relationships badly, had weird family issues (he still did), and wasn't completely out of the closet. Although he'd learned from that, all he could think of to apply to this very different situation was taking it slow. So much of his life had been fucked up by taking stupid plunges without looking first. This was _important_ to Peter. He didn't want to fuck it up.

Sylar was panting up at him, then nuzzled his shirt. Peter buried his hand in Sylar's hair, making a fist for a moment before releasing him. Peter knew he couldn't just sit there. Things would continue. They would get more involved. What if they weren't ready for that? What if _h__e_ wasn't ready for it? He struggled up from the bench, disentangling himself and snagging the Frisbee. "Come on," he said, trying to discreetly arrange his pants. "It's a long walk back."

Sylar was on his feet in an instant. "To … your apartment?"

Peter glanced at him guiltily, knowing his answer wasn't what Sylar wanted to hear. "No, your apartment and my apartment. We're not sleeping together."

It was too dark to see Sylar's expression, but the rigidity of his posture conveyed his displeasure well enough.

"Yet," Peter added softly, reaching for Sylar's hand, seeing the tall man ease some and hearing him start breathing again. The walk back was comfortably quiet.


	4. Fourth Base

Peter sat naked on the edge of his empty bed, a damp towel in his hand. He was freshly showered, clean now, and should have been thinking about getting some sleep. Instead, he was absorbed with thoughts of earlier that evening, when they'd sat entwined together on the bench … that kiss, the taste of Sylar's mouth that he still imagined on his tongue, the feel of his body against Peter's, the clutching of his hand at his waist, the sweet way Sylar had nuzzled at his chest. His heart ached. He felt empty, lonely, and incomplete, like Sylar's emotions had somehow stamped themselves onto Peter's heart. Maybe they weren't ready, but what if they were? He couldn't stand that it was him holding things back, that it was Sylar being patient and steady while Peter was dragging his feet, being suspicious and small. It wasn't the person he wanted to be. Peter stood up abruptly, pacing the room like a caged animal, but the activity didn't help. The door. He stopped and stared at it. Yes, that was one way to settle it – taking action had always been his go-to response. Quickly, he dressed.

Standing outside of Sylar's door, Peter tried to entertain all the possible reasons why he shouldn't go through with this. He had to be sure. 'It was Sylar' was no longer valid. Of course it was Sylar! It was Sylar he saw every day; whom he joked with and played piano for and shot pool with. It was Sylar who had started exercising with him; who tagged along on his pointless walks and explorations, who played basketball with him and kept him company. It was Sylar who listed the parts of a chronograph for him (and who taught him what a 'chronograph' even meant); who listened raptly to his endless paramedic stories. It was Sylar who had taken to holding him when Peter was upset, and it was Sylar whom Peter so enjoyed tucking in at night. Yes, _it was Sylar_.

Then there was Nathan. Sylar had killed him, murdered him, cut him down, and personally wronged Peter. But for every moral burden Sylar might carry for that act, Peter carried the exact same weight. Sylar had at least the excuse of being confronted and attacked by Nathan, however flimsy that was. Peter had the excuse of being overwhelmed by the drive and hunger that came with Sylar's ability, however flimsy Peter himself found that to be. Sylar was right – 'join the club' – they'd both done it and being in different timelines didn't make it any better. Every apology Sylar needed to make, Peter needed to make as well. Sylar at least had someone to apologize to. For Peter, it was just a void, a weight he might never be able to put down, a wound that was festering inside and slowly bleeding him dry.

He swallowed roughly, shuffling his feet on the thin carpet. Given their pasts, was it fair to do what he was contemplating and find pleasure in one another's company? They already had, Peter knew. Sex was only a matter of scale, sort of like coveting being morally equivalent to adultery. Not that he thought what he was contemplating doing was a sin. It wasn't sinful to make people happy. It wasn't sinful to make himself happy. But could he allow that? Could he do it? Could he give himself to the moment and really enjoy it? He looked up and down the hallway, huffing. The question was whether he wanted to spend more time like they had on the bench, or whether he wanted to remain miserable and lonely like he had since calling off their nighttime ceremonies for fear of going further. Was strained solitude, perhaps, what they both deserved? Did he want to be that calloused, hardened version of himself he'd seen in the future, with no one and nothing to lose, isolated from everyone and so cold inside that he shot down Nathan in a premeditated assassination? What he deserved be damned – that wasn't who he wanted to **be!**

The door opened towards the end of these internal considerations and Peter nearly jumped out of his skin at being discovered. His eyes like saucers, he stammered out, "Wh-what are- where are you going? It's the middle of the night." He realized the same might be asked about what he was doing standing in Sylar's hall. "I mean …" He shrugged weakly, mortified at having been caught lurking out here.

Sylar eyed him, then smiled, a slowly increasing grin that beamed at him. He chuckled and said, "Peter, it's quiet here. There's no TV or radio. I heard you walk up five minutes ago." He shrugged. "I got tired of waiting for you to knock." Sylar gave him an inquiring look, waiting for an explanation. He had changed to pajamas, but his hair looked unrumpled. Peter doubted he'd woke if he'd heard Peter coming down the hall. That was good.

"I've, um, reconsidered." _Have I?_ "Yeah," he answered himself, so jittery inside it was amazing his voice didn't shake. Then he chewed his lip, looking up into Sylar's face and hoping the answer was still affirmative.

It took Sylar a beat to figure out what Peter was talking about. When he did, he jerked visibly and blurted, "Now? Yes! Come in!" His eyes had widened and he looked around his apartment from the door, as if only now realizing it wasn't the posh bachelor pad it needed to be and that he, in his worn and comfortable pjs, wasn't the traditional picture of seduction. Peter thought he'd never looked sexier.

Peter looked in from the doorway, asking gently, "Would you like to come to my place? I've got a bigger bed."

Sylar stared at his own narrow bed, imagining the uses being implied, then snapped his head to Peter. "Yes," he answered crisply, adding, "Shoes," to explain what he was doing as he went for the items he'd mentioned. With his long pajama pants and short-sleeved shirt, Peter figured he'd be cool on the short walk to Peter's apartment, but it was a warm night – he'd be fine. Plus, Peter was flattered and thrilled by Sylar's haste and interest.

Peter smiled to himself as they walked down the deserted sidewalk, the whole city looming up above them in the darkness. Lights were sparse, but the moon they'd watched rising now hung above them, illuming the way. Sylar cleared his throat once, then again, and finally a third time. Peter glanced up at him, warmed and excited. His nerves were like a constant, high-energy hum deep in his gut. Sylar finally said, "Are we going to do what I think we're going to do?" It came out adorably dorky and although Peter couldn't see the blush, he could see the stiff way Sylar was holding himself, anticipation making him awkward.

"Yeah," Peter said simply, reaching out to find Sylar's hand and take it. "That's the idea." Sylar gripped hard, then eased off to nearly limp, then gripped harder by degrees until he found the right level of firmness. Peter was left to wonder how much of a virgin Sylar was. The man had denied it in their conversations previous, but he hadn't given any substantiating details and had shown what in retrospect was a too-intent interest in Peter's experiences. What if Sylar's claim was just typical swagger? If there was any chance he was Sylar's first, Peter vowed to be especially careful. By the time they reached Peter's floor, they were playing handsie, tickling and pinching and jabbing at each other as they left the elevator. "Stop, stop!" Peter squawked, trying to dig out his key while evading Sylar's latest assault.

Sylar stopped, leaning cutely against the wall as he watched him. "You lock your door?" he asked curiously, his voice just a little hurt by the implication.

"Yeah," Peter grunted. He turned the bolt, adding, "I'm sure it says more about how much I've been trying to keep people out of my life than it does about my opinion of the neighbors."

"Have you changed your mind about that – keeping people out of your life?"

Peter swung the door open in mute answer, tilting his head towards the interior.

Sylar gave him an appraising look before passing inside, walking past the small kitchen and into the living room that took up a third of the one-bedroom apartment. Sylar had never been in it before. When Peter said he'd been keeping people out of his life, he was serious – just as inviting Sylar back to his apartment wasn't merely a lark. He wanted to show Sylar how much this meant to him. On the other hand, the place was embarrassingly empty. Peter had moved all the furniture out shortly after coming to the world. Now that he looked at it, he felt like a mental defective who couldn't even furnish his apartment appropriately.

He and Sylar were on two different ends of the spectrum – Sylar's place was so cluttered that Peter lived in fear he'd accidentally bump a table and cause things to come crashing down; Peter's place didn't even have a table, much less things to come crashing down. But the bedroom did at least have a double bed. And the kitchen had a single barstool at the tiny bar that separated part of the kitchen from the living room. Peter sat on it, watching as Sylar looked out the windows and oriented himself. He hoped the place wasn't too off-putting. It was clean, at least. Peter tried to avoid mentally listing all the things that might go wrong, and focused on Sylar's backside instead – the proportion of his shoulders, the inset of his waist, the slender outline of his hips, and long, lean legs that went on forever. Yes, that was a good distraction from worrying about his apartment.

After turning from the window, Sylar's eyes fell upon him and his countenance changed immediately, attention sharpening his gaze and quickening his step as he stalked across the apartment. Peter straightened as Sylar reached him, the barstool giving him the extra couple inches that put their faces even. Sylar came close, looking like he'd intended to loom over Peter but was given pause by Peter's sudden equal height. Peter reached out without hesitation to curl his hand around the back of Sylar's head, pulling him in for a passionate kiss. It was only the third time they'd touched lips. Sylar sucked in air in surprise; Peter slipped his arms down around his back and pulled him even closer. Sylar's arms wrapped around him in turn, the two of them pressing together, trying to get as much contact as possible, as though both of them were starving for it. Peter was becoming more and more confident of himself, shedding his inhibitions by the second. A hungry growl escaped Peter's throat and his fingers pressed into Sylar's firm back on either side of his spine. He wanted closer; he wanted _more_. He wanted to climb inside the man if he could.

Peter scooted forward, hooking his legs behind Sylar's thighs and bringing their groins against each other. Peter moaned, low in his throat. It was perfect. They were both hard and ready. His rising hunger was making him dizzy with desire. He could feel Sylar trembling as Sylar's hands were sliding up and down Peter's back restlessly, mouth working over Peter's in devouring motions. There was no way Peter could grind the way he wanted in this position, and anyway, there was something he wanted his mouth on even more than Sylar's lips. Peter pushed him back, slithering off the barstool and going to his knees. Thin pajama bottoms were no barrier. Peter outlined Sylar's rod with his hands, stretching the fabric taut over it. Then he licked and sucked through the fuzzy cotton, nibbling and teasing as Sylar groaned and sank a hand into his hair, making a fist over and over again. Peter loved being needed, wanted, desired and that grabbing was just what Peter wanted to feel. When he could wait no longer, he tugged at the elastic waistband, slipping it down to reveal the real deal.

Despite his rush, he took a moment to admire what he'd uncovered in the light from the kitchen. Sylar was more generously endowed than most and lovely in proportion, pointing upward as his glorious organ stood at attention. Sylar was still, hardly breathing, the hand on the side of Peter's head frozen in place. Peter could feel the man's insecurity lancing through him like stabs from a knife. To reassure, Peter murmured, "It's beautiful," leaning in to rub the tip of his nose across the erect flesh, going from base to flange and inhaling that recently showered, masculine scent all the way up. He loved that smell – it was so human, so base, so carnal and yet so clean and delicious. He could feel his own cock straining against his jeans, all but forgotten as he worshipped the one before him.

When he came to the top of the shaft, he shifted slightly and let his mouth envelope the head. That was when Sylar finally reacted with a grunting expulsion of air, his knees jerking forward a little and his hand gripping once more at the side of Peter's head. Peter couldn't get enough of the meaty, manly taste of it. He sucked it and savored it, breathing it in until nothing filled his lungs but the aroma. He ran his lips around the hot glans, tasting delicious precome and settling his lips around the flaring edge of it. He gave it a hard suck, rewarded by a whimper this time and another twitch of Sylar's weak knees. Peter put a hand to the base of Sylar's cock, tilting it down so he could slide its length deeper into his mouth, tongue massaging the underside of it.

Sylar mumbled out some inarticulate appeal to divinity, his hand shaking where it had fisted Peter's hair. Scalding hot desire was running rampant in him, along with a gratitude that made Peter unbelievably eager to please. He would do anything for those emotions; the channel between them was open loud and clear – he knew what Sylar was feeling. Sylar started fucking his face in short prods, shallow enough not to choke at first. If his breathing was any indication, he wasn't going to last long. Peter shifted, sucking hard on each stroke, keeping one hand on Sylar's cock and the other on the man's hip, both subtly guiding and directing. Sylar whimpered, riding him backwards until the back of Peter's skull was bumping against the seat of the barstool. Now the cock was starting to choke him, nudging against the back of his throat with every thrust. It was perfect; Peter wanted that shaft in his throat more than air. His own dick was aching with need. He usually had a hand to spare for himself, but his entire focus was on pleasing Sylar right now.

Peter rolled his eyes upward, past the dark, curly hairs on Sylar's stomach so he could see the man's face. Sylar's eyes were shut, mouth open for ragged breaths, brows drawn together as if in pain or ecstasy. Peter moaned, so turned on by seeing him so close. He worked the base of Sylar's cock with his hand and moved his other from the man's hip to his balls, rolling them in his palm and then gripping them rhythmically. Sylar's hips hitched and he tensed all over. _Oh yeah! _Peter thought, sucking and working him harder. He wanted Sylar to be thankful, grateful, and appreciative of getting the best blow-job on Earth and to know Peter Petrelli could get him off like no one else. Being a hero and wanting people to look up to him wasn't a trait that Peter left at the bedroom door. He would swallow Sylar down as liquid proof that he'd mattered to someone. A faint whine came from Sylar and a moment later his organ throbbed and his hips jerked convulsively. Come pulsed into Peter's mouth and he sucked it greedily, his own dick weeping behind the constricting fabric of his jeans.

After drinking in the last of Sylar's essence, Peter pulled off to breathe deep and rough, his forehead resting on Sylar's hip. Sylar stroked and petted his hair with an appreciation that lit Peter up from the inside. He could jerk himself off right here at Sylar's feet for that. It was exactly what he wanted, a transcendent fulfillment. His hands encircled Sylar's ass, kneading his butt cheeks while Peter rubbed his face against the hot, soft skin of Sylar's lower abdomen. It was a sublime gesture of supplication, begging for release, but Sylar only continued to languidly pet him. It came to Peter that although he could sense Sylar's emotions, so strongly that he could feel them burning through his skin and singing along his nerves, Sylar could not feel Peter's. He made a small, helplessly frustrated noise against Sylar's belly, nipping him hard enough to make the man jump, hand clenching in Peter's hair.

Peter rose to his feet. He needed a moment to gather himself, to separate his still-fervent needs from Sylar's contented satiation. It wasn't Sylar's fault. He was all tenderness now, holding Peter's face and kissing over it carefully – and just as carefully avoiding his mouth. Peter saw what he needed to do. Giving the man several loving strokes along his sides, Peter nuzzled Sylar's chin and said, "Let me go brush my teeth. Can I see you in the bedroom?"

Sylar kissed his forehead in answer and with a parting pat Peter headed to the bathroom. Once cleaned up, he returned to the bedroom to a scene right out of a porn magazine. Sylar was naked in the middle of Peter's bed, lying on his side with his upper knee raised enough to conceal his business, his lower arm crooked under his head to lift it slightly. His expression was smoldering. Peter's passions ignited. He stripped hurriedly, eyes leaving Sylar only for the brief, necessary moment when Peter lifted his shirt over his head. Then he was on the bed, his headlong rush slowing the instant his knees hit the mattress. 'Jumping' Sylar was supposed to be figurative, after all, not literal. Peter forced himself to slow down, to breathe, and to take in everything about the gorgeous scene in front of him. He crawled, hands and knees, towards the man.

Sylar waited for him, holding the same pose for the most part. His butt was raised by the arching of his back. Peter skimmed one hand over it, his eyes snapping from Sylar's rump to his face when he felt the twisted emotions of dread and desire burning through him at the touch. _Dread?_ Sylar looked away towards the headboard and started to turn, shifting so he would be lying face down for the act he so clearly anticipated. _No way,_ Peter thought, repulsed by the idea of having sex with someone whose expectation of him was so laden with fear and uncertainty.

Peter moved up next to him, taking Sylar's shoulder and turning him back onto his side. Peter lay down on his side as well so they faced one another. For a moment, that was all they did – look. Then Peter reached out a hand and touched the bare skin under Sylar's nipple, smoothing down towards his abdomen, then laterally over his belly towards the mattress. Sylar sighed in response, relaxing and calming as true interest stirred in him, along with affection and what Peter interpreted as generosity. Sylar was not short on being a giving spirit, despite his history of taking.

Sylar touched Peter's hip tentatively, then stroked down his upper thigh. "Mm," Peter hummed in approval, raising his leg and hooking it loosely over Sylar's. Sylar slipped his hand around Peter's leg, tugging it into position so he could run his nails up and down the back of the thigh. Peter chuckled and squirmed. It tickled a little, the odd sensation giving him a frisson of erotic energy. Sylar did it again, expanding his range to scratch lightly up over Peter's buttocks and then to the back side of his knee. That more than tickled, setting off amorous instincts Peter wasn't about to deny. He moved forward for a sudden kiss, deepening it when Sylar rubbed a slow, experimental circle at the back of Peter's knee.

Peter moaned. He couldn't stand that – it was simply too much. Panting now, he grabbed Sylar's hand away from the back of his knee and put it on his cock. He kissed rapidly along Sylar's cheek, nosing at him enthusiastically as Sylar gripped him, feeling his heft and adjusting to the angle of jerking off someone other than himself. Into his ear, Sylar chuckled and whispered huskily, "Ah, Peter. I will find what makes your gears turn and you will never want for service."

"Yeah?" Peter breathed, scooting even closer, worming one arm under Sylar's head while the other snaked around his back. He hooked his leg tighter around Sylar's. He would have climbed all over the guy except that Sylar had hold of his dick and that gave him a large ability to steer. Sylar didn't resist the proximity (seemed to love it, in fact), but he liked Peter where he was – next to him, where he could stroke him easily.

Stroking; Sylar was good at that, pumping Peter like clockwork at a pace fast enough to meet Peter's needs and slow enough that he wanted to strangle the guy for not going faster. But Peter wasn't in control of things anymore. He let slip the limits and constraints he'd held them to for so long, letting go of the last reasons to confine himself in this hell, to trap Sylar here with him, and condemn them both. He was done with the thankless burden he'd been carrying for so long. He gave himself up wholly to Sylar's ministrations, releasing himself from guilt and pardoning them both.

Maybe Sylar sensed that. He certainly gathered that things had gone past the point of backing out. Peter's eyes were glazed, his responses primitive; he whimpered under the onslaught of the stimulation. Sylar got his free hand into Peter's hair, bunching it and using it to direct him. He pushed Peter onto his back, putting one knee between Peter's thighs, pinning it against Sylar's other knee. He climbed over Peter with an intent expression Peter would have found frightening if he'd had his wits about him more. Instead, he called out, "Yeah! Yeah!" encouraging more domination. He touched at Sylar's sides, keeping contact but not interfering. He left Sylar to do as he would.

Sylar stooped, mouth opened as though to kiss and Peter tried to rise to him. He was trapped, though, hair still pinned. Sylar did not kiss him. He just hung a half inch over Peter, poised so close Peter could breathe in his exhalations. Peter squirmed under him, whining at the denial. Sylar's hand slowed on Peter's cock, the grip tightening and the strokes becoming longer. It focused Peter's attention on his words. "You have no idea how much of a torment it's been to me, Peter, to see you for all this time and not be able to have you. I want to take my revenge like this every," stroke, "night," stroke, "that you'll have me." stroke and a twist at the end.

"Hrg. Please!" Peter bucked his hips, wanting more and faster and not getting it.

"Please this?" Sylar moved down like he was offering a kiss again, but once more, stopped short, leaving Peter's lips warmer for his nearness, but without actual contact. Peter made a shameless, plaintive cry, pulling against his confinement, far beyond guarding his dignity. His hands clutched at Sylar's hips now. He wanted to pull him down on top of him but he didn't. He would take what Sylar gave him – he just knew he wanted more than he was getting. Lifting away slightly, Sylar squeezed the very tip of Peter's dick between finger and thumb. "Or please that?"

"That," he said immediately, desperate as he was. He was so close already.

Sylar began pumping him fast and hard, focusing on the tip. He dipped to maul Peter's exposed neck, drawing it back with his fist in Peter's hair until Peter's back arched and his scalp stung. His throat hurt with the bites and suction, but he was beyond caring if Sylar marked him up or even drew blood. When he was this far gone, every bit of stimulation was good – pleasure and pain blended together until he couldn't tell where one left off and the other began. His cock felt like it was going to explode in the tightening, shifting grip, rasping against him without lube in a way that was almost cruel. He knew he'd be sore as hell later but right now he wanted everything he could get. His dick was so hard, so hot, and he could feel every detail of Sylar's hand sliding over it, squeezing and molding him with relentless pressure. Peter started crying out, thrashing his legs, begging for release. His cock hurt, his balls hurt, his throat hurt, and every fiber of his being was crying out for more. He was right at the cusp, his body assaulted by overwhelming stimulation, but missing some critical component he couldn't even imagine right now.

Sylar lifted his face from his neck, his own hovering over Peter's pleading one. His hand stopped entirely, holding the head of Peter's straining dick in his hand, forefinger and thumb in an 'o' shape around the flange. "Now _come_," he whispered, sinking to press his lips tenderly against Peter's. Peter's whole body surged, every nerve ending aflame. The kiss was exactly what he needed – arousal without some form of affection wasn't enough. Without Sylar's hand moving a millimeter, Peter's dick throbbed and he spurted hot come over his stomach.

"Such a _good boy_," Sylar crooned to him, releasing his hair and petting him now, flopping down to lie on his side and marveling openly at Peter. Peter looked at him, brain too fuzzy to figure out how to take that. After no more than a few seconds, he gave up the attempt. He rolled to push himself against Sylar, pressing his face to the crook of Sylar's neck and hugging him gently, hands light on Sylar's sides. To say he felt vulnerable after having given up control and allowed Sylar to usurp it, surrendering every bit of his dignity then ejaculating on command and being praised like an exceptionally clever dog – yeah, very vulnerable. He desperately needed the protective, enveloping embrace Sylar gave him, as much as he needed the unmitigated adoration he could feel inside of Sylar. There was no disrespect – quite the contrary. Peter hid himself in Sylar's sheltering arms until sleepiness began to call to him.

At that, Peter finally roused himself. He wanted to sleep together all night, which this wouldn't accomplish, lovely though it was in the short-term. "Get up," Peter said, sitting up in the bed. Sylar looked at him blankly, like Peter was speaking a foreign language. He'd nodded off, too, during their post-coital cuddling. Peter nudged him towards the edge of the bed. "Go on." Sylar's expression shifted as he finally moved to obey, and what little of it Peter saw stopped him in his tracks. It had looked … shamed, humiliated, angry, and hurt. Peter shuffled off the bed on his side, watching Sylar intently the whole time. _What the hell was that? _He mentally reviewed what he'd said and did, but didn't see any fault with it. 'Get up' did not in any way translate to 'I hate you', 'you suck', or 'that was the worst sex of my life'. But there Sylar was, scrambling to pick up his clothes and get them on as quickly as possible. He didn't need to touch him to know the emotional read he'd had was accurate.

Peter circled to the end of the bed. "What are you doing?" he asked, even though it was perfectly obvious what Sylar was doing – he was acting like he'd been kicked out, like Peter's simple request had been interpreted in the worst possible way.

"Fine!" Sylar snapped, voice trembling. He had on his underwear and pants now. Grabbing his shirt and shoes, he strode towards the exit like he'd leave half-dressed, but Peter put himself in the doorway and didn't budge an inch.

"I said," Peter repeated firmly, "what are you doing?"

Shaking in fury and shame at having been confronted and forced to answer, Sylar ground out, "You tell me to go, I will _go_. I know how it is," he added snidely.

Raising his brows in exaggerated disbelief, Peter said, "You don't know _anything_, Sylar." When the man looked ready to boil over at that, Peter, who was never one to back down anyway, doubled down by pointing at the far side of the bed and saying, "You say you'll go? Then _**GO**_ … to the other side of the bed, and help me turn down the freaking covers so we can sleep together more comfortably, you big drama queen!"

For a second there, it looked like Sylar managed to somehow grow an inch, looming over him in his most intimidating fashion, which was terrifying, but Peter didn't flinch. He knew he was right and he wasn't going to let Sylar's insecurities ruin this. The next moment, Sylar deflated entirely. His hands fussed with the shirt he was holding and looked at a loss, eyes darting between the bed and Peter. His lips moved a little, but it was clear he couldn't settle on what to say.

Peter touched his forearm and stroked down it to his wrist. Sylar stilled, looking down at the comforting gesture and then back up at Peter with eyes large and dark. They stayed focused on Peter, waiting for guidance. Very softly, Peter said, "If you want to stay, I'd love to have you." He stroked Sylar's arm again, more slowly, and raised his brows as he tilted his head in invitation. "Tuck you in, maybe?"

At that, Sylar melted. He dropped his things to the side and pulled Peter close in a grateful embrace that said more than words ever could.


	5. Fifth Element

It took Sylar a very long time to actually go to sleep. He was ecstatic at being in bed with someone. It was still so novel and unexpected that he found himself daydreaming instead of dozing. He never thought he could be so happy for so long – so many hours of bliss just lying here next to his … lover. He had a lover! He had someone companionable enough to sleep with him, to … Jesus Christ, to take his cock into his mouth and swallow his come. His dick and mind both had been blown by that. He didn't know what had changed Peter's mind about him and he didn't care. It was enough that things _had_ changed. It was a change that would stick, wouldn't it? When they woke up, would it still be that way? He didn't want to be a 'drama queen' by doubting, but it was still so hard to believe.

He reached back and touched lightly along Peter's smooth flank. Hard to believe or not, here Peter was, spooning up behind him, knees against the back of Sylar's thighs and forehead resting against his back. His arms were folded up between them. Sylar felt over the bare skin. He could see why Peter had enjoyed putting him to bed so much, allowed to sit there and stroke and pet to his heart's content. Sylar smiled, imagining a future where they both did that and much, much more.

Peter twitched, some element of the touch finally waking him somewhat. He took Sylar's hand, held it and squeezed it, then gave him an adorable, sleepy kiss in the middle of the back. Peter scooted closer, letting go of Sylar's hand to wrap his arm possessively around Sylar's waist, pulling them together. He nosed groggily at Sylar's spine before falling back asleep. It was all so natural and unreserved, like all of the walls between them had come crashing down. He laid his hand over Peter's, twined their fingers loosely together, and finally joined him in sleep. No nightmares would ever trouble him so long as Peter had his back.

XXX

Sylar leaned against the ticket booth and patiently watched Peter under lowered brows. Peter was a little wound up, to put it mildly. Sylar, too, if he'd been forced to admit it. He'd sorted the events of the day – went to Matt Parkman's; got bamboozled and bricked into the basement; visited by Peter in some kind of prolonged dream sequence that had concluded with getting a blow job from him, jerking Peter off, then falling asleep with him; awakened, escaped, and flew to the carnival; stopped Doyle, saved Emma, and witnessed Claire flinging herself pointlessly from a Ferris wheel. Peter had been rather distant and unemotive during the post-basement scenes, but on the other hand, Sylar thought, he had even more to process about the day than Sylar did. The important question was what he was going to do about it. It would be very easy for Peter to walk away.

Sylar had considered his own options and decided the best way to get what he wanted was to see which way Peter jumped. What Sylar wanted was the same thing he'd wanted this morning – a connection. He hadn't thought that would take the form of a sexual partner, but Sylar was never one to turn down a perk. What Peter had wanted this morning was to save Emma. That was done. He had no obligations. No promises had been made between them. He hadn't even answered Sylar's question about the reality of the dream. It would be incredibly inconvenient for him to continue a relationship with Sylar, whom everyone knew as the murderer of his so-recently buried brother. If the old Sylar were in Peter's position, he'd have him eliminated more permanently, all the sooner after an embarrassing telepathic intimacy that could be blamed off on brainwashing and desperation brought on by the perception of going so long without. Who could blame him? Assuming they even found out, which was unlikely. Sylar sighed at how easy that would be for Peter to arrange.

He was not the old Sylar. And neither was Peter. Those two reasons were why Sylar waited, watching as Peter scurried around, dutifully offering medical help to the various shaken patrons. None of them were seriously hurt, so Sylar didn't think this was strictly necessary. He initially believed Peter was avoiding him until he realized Peter never left his sight for more than a few seconds. When the people he was escorting would take him beyond Sylar's vision, Peter gave them directions and returned to the main area. That had Sylar frowning – was Peter keeping an eye on him? Or was he staying close out of some sense of loyalty? His cynical soul wanted to crush the tiny hope he harbored, but it didn't quite dare. He would be patient, because soon enough, Peter would be out of patients.

Peter stood in the middle of the open area, turning in place, slowly taking in everything and listening for cries. There was nothing. Other EMTs and even the police had done a sweep. Everyone had been encouraged or in some cases ordered to leave. Peter, recognized by other emergency workers, had been exempted. Sylar had been careful about who he let see him. But now he was back next to the ticket booth. The cops would be sending another sweep through soon, looking for stragglers. Peter's eyes settled on him.

Would he walk away? He still could. Sylar wouldn't follow him and Peter probably knew that. Would he try to attack? It was impossible to tell for sure what ability Peter had. While terrakinesis was an obvious possibility, he could have transferred with someone else among the EMTs, leftover carnies, spectators, or even the few Company people who had come skulking around. Even though Peter had been visible to Sylar the whole time, he could have whispered warnings to people and set something up. The bitter, cynical voice inside of Sylar told that maybe that was why Peter had worked so ceaselessly to get rid of witnesses and uninvolved parties.

Sylar tried to trust. He tried to have faith. He knew Peter's character better than anyone and that gave him hope. This was possibly the only person in the world willing to give him a sincere second chance after all he'd done. He knew Peter was not inconstant in matters of the heart. His faithfulness and devotion were the stuff of legends. 'Stubborn' had its good side and Peter had plenty of that. Maybe – maybe it would work, maybe there was a point to being good. Peter was walking towards him, alone and unthreatening. He stopped an arm's length away, regarding Sylar's blank, shadowed face. Sylar stepped a little closer and Peter didn't retreat as Sylar reached up and ran one finger down the side of his neck. There were no bite marks or hickeys from their night of passion and he knew his teeth had dug in enough to leave them. "There's not a trace we were ever together," Sylar said quietly.

"I remember."

"You don't owe me anything, Peter."

Peter snorted softly. "Good. I wouldn't want us to start off 'owing' each other."

'_Start off'?_ Sylar wondered, that tiny hope flaring to life again.

Peter lowered his voice, dipping his head forward as he said, "I have an empty bed I'd like to see you in." He straightened again, biting his lip and watching tense and uncertain for Sylar's reaction.

Sylar realized how much power Peter must think Sylar had now – all the abilities and even less reason than Peter to stick around with a Petrelli whom he'd had a death wish for only weeks before. Just as Peter had made him no promises, Sylar had made none in return. But here Peter was, inviting him to share his bed, his body, and perhaps more. It was so hard to believe that what Peter was offering him was real. "You're going to let people into your life again?"

"Some of them," Peter allowed. He swallowed nervously, reaching out to touch his fingertips to the back of Sylar's hand. Just that little contact seemed to calm him.

Sylar smiled, warmed and won over by Peter's nervousness. This meant a lot to the Italian, that was clear – _Sylar_ meant a lot to him. He turned his hand to take Peter's, holding it gently in an open, public display of affection that Peter returned without hesitation. It was a nice walk to their apartment – slow, real, and through a city teeming with people. There was only one he wanted to be with, though, and his heart sung because that one wanted to be with him.


End file.
